“Very grand and very glorious in many cases; only, if you exhaust yourself at the beginning of the race, you won’t reach the goal, or win the prize, which otherwise you might have reasonable hopes of. And, to be useful, you must not despise commonly prudent precautions. By the way, would you like an admission to the reading-room in the British Museum?”
“Oh, very much! You know I shall be quite near it.”
“Well, I think I can get you one. Perhaps you would like to know a nice old lady and her daughter, who live in a quiet street hard by?”
“Dear me, yes—exceedingly! You know, I don’t know a soul.”
“Their name is Welsh. They are not smart people, but the mother is very kind, and the daughter, who is some years older than yourself, intelligent and intellectual. If you like one another (which I see no reason to doubt), I think your dropping in on them now and then, just as you drop in here, to tea, would be taken kindly.”
“I am sure it would be a kindness to myself,” said Harry, brightening. And he took down their address in a little pocket-book, that his sister Emily had given him as a keep-sake; and I promised to write to Mrs. Welsh, and prepare her to expect him.
“I know a clever artist, too,” said I; “a sensible, friendly man, with a nice little wife. They, also, are quiet people; but yet they sometimes receive, beneath their unassuming roof, noteworthy persons, whom one would like to have a glimpse of.”
“Why, Mrs. Cheerlove, that promises still better than the other! Will you write to them too?”
“I will, Harry. And now I believe you know the extent of what little I can do for you.”
“I call it much, not little,” said he, gratefully; and the rest of our conversation was very cheerful.